As for the food, he’d walk across the breadth of the city to eat here, certainly after the error of last week. The aroma of a fresh cony pie had been really alluring, beguiling his senses. Before he knew it he’d passed over a few pence and was munching away. However after a few bites he had lost his appetite very quickly. From what he recalled conies had fluffy tails not long skinny, bald ones like the example he’d pulled from the pie. Hmm, sewer dwelling cony? Perhaps not-thank the saints the piss channel was nearby.
Ned found the Mistress of the tavern standing by the heavy table that occupied the centre of the kitchen, surrounded by the interweaving pattern of cooks and a number of servitors and others wielding knives or scrubbing pots. The fire had a complicated mechanism that slowly revolved the some dozen roasting beasts and haunches. It looked quite a marvel and Ned idly wondered if Rob Black had something to do with its design and fabrication. Its many cogs and chains seemed to fit his area of delight in the artificers’ trade. However, past all the confusion and wondrous devices, what really riveted his attention was the basket in front of Mistress Emma. It was small and made from the woven willow wickerwork that was so commonly used all along the Thames. Nothing special or different in the design or pattern, they were made by the hundreds, usually by farmer’s wives or children. Everyone used them for carrying or storing produce, mostly fruits like apples, pears, damsons or in this case, the bitter oranges from Spain.
Ned stood there and glowered at the oranges. He used to like their bitingly tart taste, but now he would prefer it if all the dratted fruit in the country were committed to the deeps. Then the incongruity struck him. Why was a basket here?
Mistress Emma noted his entrance and gave a welcoming smile. “Ah Ned, y’ here! I don’t have to send anyone off to find y’. Care to sample some oranges? They’ve just come in.”
He stood surrounded by the interplay of the kitchen, perplexed. The last he recalled, they were to find out where the two ladies and their oranges went, not get a taste. Emma mistook his pause for acceptance and rattled on. “Meg said the first basket should be yours and so here it is.”
Ned suppressed a frown at the mention of his nemesis. Once more Mistress Black seemed to have pre-empted his plans. That was becoming an annoying habit. Damn that precocious woman! “Where did they come from?” That was a reasonable attempt at nonchalance as he rummaged amongst the offensive fruit.
“We got word that their barge was passing Westminster school a few hours ago, and watched as were they landed by Milford Lane, before lodging at the Bishop of Bath’s Inn. So seeing an opportunity, Meg organised a raid while there was a bit of confusion regarding a farmer, his herd of pigs and the right of way. Thus here we are-one basket of oranges!”
Ned picked up one of the culprits of his shame and looked at it. Instead of the rippled skin, in its place he saw a triumphant Meg Black, thumbing her nose at him. This was supposed to be a gift? An insult more like! Well if that was to be how it was, then Ned could be equally as highhanded. In fit of anger he clenched his fist and the orange ball exploded into pulpy shards that dripped across the scrubbed table.
Not the most tactful of action from the frown now gracing Mistress Emma’s brow. Ned guiltily looked down at the mess his anger had created. In an attempt to restore his dignity, he began to pick up the pieces, then stopped in surprise, his hand still leaking the sticky fluid.
It really wasn’t possible, was it? Could it be that simple? Was the rooting out of treason and conspiracy that prone to the hand of Providence? Ned mused as he held the pulped fruit, looking at a piece of it that he knew for certain wasn’t part of the Lord’s ordained order for the composition of the tartly bitter fruit.
It was a small cylinder about as long as his finger and it looked like waxed parchment. Ignoring the growl of disapproval from Mistress Emma, he dropped the rest of the pulped fruit on the table, pulled free the strange object and held it thoughtfully in his hands. Emma, now curious came over to view his find. Ned pulled out his dagger and trimmed off the wax sealing the top and ran the fine tip along the edge to uncover the tightly wrapped tube of parchment. Was this what they were doing in the Queen’s chamber with all those oranges? But why?
Emma moved a couple of platters and bowls out of the way and Ned carefully unrolled the parchment scrap on the table. For an instant he was returned to that revealing moment in Albrecht’s store room when the cascade of golden coins spilled out of the broken candle. It had changed all their fates and transformed them from accused traitors to loyal subjects of the King saving them from a dire fate on Tower Hill.
This was another matter. Whoever had penned this had a reasonable command of English, but the style was so odd and peculiar. The words themselves were simple enough if cryptic.
theloRd’s day wIllSeE hellfire ReIgn On the unrighTeous.
Ned tapped his blade idly on the table in thought, trying to work through the message. Was it in a cipher like the Cardinal’s letters? Or was this just a part of a longer message? It appeared that Mistress Emma had already visited that idea for she was busily removing the fruit from its basket and had begun to cut them carefully. A few minutes dissection proved that the message cylinder was without siblings. So puzzling! But what did that mean? Well in theory one message per basket and presumably one basket to whomever? He thought once more on the affair of last year. That had seen messages secreted in ordinary words. Dr Caerleon had said that some ciphers were supposed to be fiendishly complex, involving counter codes and tables. But somehow that didn’t seem correct. This wasn’t a message from a spy to their master. Instead, Ned thought it appeared more a call or reminder for action and if anything else was needed, it had to be already in the statement. At his request, Emma fetched quill, ink and parchment and Ned began his labours over the script.
The rest of the kitchen flowed around him as he sat in his bubble of concentration. Ned tried several simple word ciphers, combinations all the first letters then the second letters, but each method just came out a jumble. Then on the cusp of frustration, he remembered that the easiest code models changed the letters. With another inspection of the message he noticed the occasional irregular use of a Capital letter in some of the words. Ned spelt them out on the parchment and leant back to view the results. Simple. It was almost right out in the open for anyone to read-what arrogance.
RISE RIOT.
Or not! Those damning words were dread injunctions to upset the natural order of the kingdom and the merest whiff was enough to have a hundred dancing the slow hemp jig from the gibbet as a precaution. For gentry it was an instant trip to the Tower and if they were favoured, the headsman’s axe, if not, the traditional gruesome fate of traitors. Ned’s hand trembled at what he had penned.
That Queen Katherine and her clique would stoop to raising the red hand of rebellion against her natural and sovereign lord was inconceivable. It broke every tenant of his schooling and Church instilled morality, no matter that the priest was known by all to have a secret wife and his school masters had, for the most part, been dissembling fools. But those errors and human flaws were irrelevant. What they’d thundered most voraciously was the obedience due to God, to the Church and to the King’s Majesty. It was the glue that bound the duties and reciprocal rights of the modern kingdom together.
The Queen, by this missive, was advocating a return to darker, bloodier times before the King’s father gained the throne. Like many young men, he had only heard the tales of strife and battle from aged veterans of the civil affray. These days it was prudent not to question too loudly whether the House of York or Lancaster had the better claim to the throne. That issue had been irrecoverably settled at Bosworth Field and Henry Tudor was the victor and King by the grace of God and Act of Parliament. If any doubted the judgement, the crushing of the later attempted rebellions and the death of Edmund de la Pole, the last White Rose claimant, at Pavia, made the point moot.